A Slice of Cake
by Order of the Aether
Summary: So, two supersoldiers have a stand-up mixer...or, Bucky makes Steve run out for groceries and Steve comes home to a cake. Now we get to see how Bucky thought of the idea in the first place. No slash. Usual AU, post-CA:TWS.
1. A Slice of Cake

**A/N: Hi, everybody! *waves* To the, what, five of you who care, I'm still alive and got a few things sorted out in real life, so you can expect a regular updating schedule from me from now on. Kicking it off with what's effectively a _very_ belated happy birthday for Steve. I guess it took a while to finish that cake. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **A Slice of Cake**

Conscious and updated people, both American and abroad, who watched their televisions or news feeds on smart devices might assume—and not without reason—that Captain America always did something patriotic on the Fourth of July.

(He didn't.)

They might assume that on some broadcasting channel or in some park by the Capital, they'd find the man himself in full regalia, addressing the people on the virtues of their country and urging them to strive forward into greatness and prosperity.

(Not if he could help it.)

They might assume he at least decorated something in red, white, and blue.

(Well...yes. He put a little flag outside the door of his apartment suite. Nothing too obtrusive or too apathetic—he did care about his country, after all, and worked to protect it—but he had no intention of toting the symbols and trappings of his profession on his back and around his home all day, every day.)

The reason, then, that these conscious and updated people would be so terribly wrong in their assumptions was actually quite simple. So simple, in fact, that it might never cross the minds of any but a very select few.

If he could help it, Captain America went without his cowl on the Fourth of July.

Unless the world had the misfortune of being attacked on the same day one of its countries was celebrating independence from another, Captain America was not to be found in costume, on payroll, or in any recognizable state whatsoever.

Captain America died on Independence Day. Steve Rogers lived instead.

Because Steve Rogers, of course, was separate from his persona with the vibranium shield. Steve Rogers was who he was when he wasn't pretending to be anyone else. Steve Rogers was the one often overlooked in the shadow of the Star-Spangled Man.

And he dropped the Captain America act on the fourth of July, because there are few things really more crushing than being overlooked on your birthday.

* * *

Steve's motorcycle coasted into the brick alley outside his apartment, the closed space echoing the rumble of the bike's motor. Steve cut the ignition and exhaled, trying not to breathe in until the air cleared of engine fumes. Keys went into his pocket, and he snatched up a small white grocery bag from the compartment behind the motorcycle seat.

What a day. He stood tiredly on the doorstep of the apartment, punching in the entry key by muscle memory. The fourth of July was officially as bad as weekends if one wanted to avoid crowds. He heard the electronic lock click and stepped through the door, immediately grateful for air conditioning as the door shut behind him and he left the heat outside.

Two stairs at a time, he jogged up the flight to the second level. He couldn't have gotten home soon enough. Bucky had him run out for two random lists of groceries, and _very_ emphatically requested that he come home and drop off the goods from the first run before going off on the second. Steve was just returning now from the second round trip.

He had to admit to himself that Bucky hadn't given much of a demand. It was hardly an instruction. But with the limited communication skills of the former Winter Soldier, a list shoved into Steve's hand and a straightforward (if stuttered) "c-come home between" was such a change from Bucky's usual behavior that Steve saw no choice but to obey.

It wasn't like Steve had been inconvenienced...terribly. But the second list had taken him all the way across D.C., to a large supermarket at which he'd only been once—and once was apparently enough for Bucky to remember—with too many lines, too much space, and too much red and white and blue strung everywhere, just to buy a single block of cheese.

Steve loved Bucky. He did. He loved Bucky with all his heart and if Bucky liked the particular store's brand of cheese, then fine. He could have it, and Steve would get it for him, no questions asked. But standing in that line, riding his bike through the heat, and the whole time having that little nagging voice in his head wondering what was going on with Bucky and what he was doing and whether it'd maybe been a bad idea to leave him behind was cutting it a little close.

Steve came in sight of the suite door and took a cleansing breath to calm his nerves. Almost there, Rogers.

It was _not—_ and he'd repeat it to himself— _not_ the worst way he'd ever spent his birthday, to be out running errands for his best friend. After all, he was up and about, he was breathing without asthma trouble, and he was in the sun without worrying about collapsing of heat stroke.

Now, there had been the one time he spent his birthday with an ear infection. _That_ had been terrible. Or the one time he had rheumatic fever, and he could hardly keep down water without vomiting, let along cake. Or the one time he'd had the flu—

Steve snorted at himself and put the house key into the lock.

Yep. Definitely grateful for the serum right now. Perpetual illness was one thing from his old life that he never wished back.

But there was something else about those horrible birthdays, something important. In his memories of each—Bucky was there. He'd help to care for Steve, running errands for his mother Sarah, talking to Steve, reading to him, and doing all he could to make him feel like the center of the world—because if Steve had to be sick on his birthday, Bucky would see to it that he didn't have to also be sick, hurting, and alone.

Warmth filled Steve's chest at the thought of it, and not for the first time. He leaned on the unlocked door and just let himself take the time to be grateful. All he owed to Bucky could never be repaid in things and words. Now that Bucky was here—here and healing, overcoming all that HYDRA tried to do to him—Steve had so much to be grateful for, and so much time to repay the debt in love and loyalty he'd racked up over the years.

And he would. If that infernal block of cheese was only two cents in the currency of devotion that he owed Bucky then he'd pay it, every last cent, until he could stop making it up to him and start giving him the more that he deserved.

With that, Steve opened the door and was greeted with a small clatter and the warm, sugary smell of—

— _cake?!_

What was the smell of fresh-baked cake (and, by logical conclusion, the fresh-baked cake) doing in his apartment?

"Sam?" Steve called.

It had to be Sam. That was the only thing that would make sense. But there was no answer.

He shut the door behind him and rounded the corner to the kitchen to find Bucky, who froze—the freeze of someone expecting punishment—and moved to hide something on the counter.

But Steve didn't see this in the large picture. He saw it in details—striking details, caught by an artist's eye. The little smudge of flour on Bucky's eyebrow, and the ones on his shirt, and the messy brown ponytail dripping strands of hair into his face. The empty bowl and whisk on the counter.

Various opened boxes and cartons, including eggs and milk and sugar, scattered about on every horizontal surface in the kitchen. The center dial on the oven, set to 350 degrees Fahrenheit—and not yet turned off. The stand-up mixer, right behind Bucky, with white flecks climbing up the blades of the blender and the rim of the bowl.

And right by Bucky's arm—as Bucky stood between it and Steve, eyes wide and painfully scrutinizing as his chest sucked in tiny, heavy breaths—a cake. A half-frosted, rich, brown, chocolate cake.

Steve felt his jaw hit the floor. Yet at the same time, the side of his brain that took control on that battlefield snapped into gear. Cap was taking charge—more or less—and assessed the situation in front of him.

First things first, Bucky was scared. He'd probably been startled when Steve came in. Trying to push the fact that he'd made a cake to the back of his mind (how? _why?_ ), Steve set the plastic bag onto the counter where Bucky could see it, careful to keep his hands visible.

"Hey, Bucky." It was his low voice, the "I come in peace" voice that he used whenever Bucky was wound up like a spring. "It's okay. You're okay. What's going on?"

Bucky stared between Steve's hands and face and slowly relaxed—first by his shoulders, then to the rest of his posture—but didn't move otherwise, still standing his guard with a wary mix of curiosity and fear.

"You made a cake?" asked Steve.

It was a stupid question. Obviously, he'd made a cake. But it gave Steve another chance to use that same low tone of voice that assured Bucky he meant no harm, and maybe to pull him back into reality.

Bucky dipped his head slightly—the childlike movement that meant he wanted something, or felt shy, or desperately wanted Steve's approval—and gave a tiny nod.

The ridiculous celebration going on in Steve's head only showed in the small smile he gave Bucky. "Can I see?"

Bucky glanced at the arm protecting his creation, but didn't more to stop him. Steve reached forward, pausing once or twice to be sure Bucky was comfortable, and slid the tray into view.

It _was_ a cake. In fact, it was a cake with two layers, white frosting sandwiched between rich brown and spread over the top. It had obviously been done by hand; almost half the cake was not frosted, and the half that was had lines through the frosting that mimicked the width of a spatula.

Steve glanced around at the ingredients piled around the counters, realization hitting him like a thunderclap that he recognized them all. _That_ carton of eggs, _that_ brand of butter, _that_ box of baking powder. He'd bought them all on the first run to the store.

A wide grin spread across Steve's face. _Aw, well played, pal. Never even crossed my mind._

Bucky shifted on his feet, looking less like he expected punishment and more like a meek child hoping for approval. "Good?" he whispered.

 _What,_ good _?! He made me a cake for my birthday!_ Steve all-out beamed and wrapped Bucky in his arms, ignoring the flour that would stick to his clothes and skin. "Yeah, Buck, real good," he praised, holding Bucky close until he could feel the warmth from his skin. "Good job. Thank you so much."

Bucky seemed surprised by the affection at first, but burrowed into his shoulder soon enough.

"You're back too soon," whispered Bucky.

"What?" asked Steve.

And then it hit him. The run for the cheese. Steve laughed aloud, causing Bucky to start in his arms.

"Whoa, Buck—sorry," he apologized quickly, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. Bucky shrank against Steve, looking confused.

"It's okay," Steve assured him. "Aw, was that it? You wanted me distracted, so you stuck me in the one place you knew that had awful long lines. Boy, you're smart, Bucky. Sorry I rushed home. I was worried about you."

Bucky's clear, ocean-blue eyes studied Steve's face for some time. He wore the same stony, guarded expression Steve had seen in that fight on the hellicarrier, and again whenever Bucky was particularly nervous in the long weeks since then. But in time, it melted into a shadow of the cocky grin he used to have, sometime long ago (but it wasn't really that long!)—both sides of his lips twitching upward, and a "fight me" look in his eye.

"Mmn...got you," he muttered, and then hid his face in Steve's shoulder.

"Yeah, you got me," Steve grinned, enveloping his friend in a bone-crushing squeeze. "Tell ya what, pal," he said, releasing him. "You finish the cake, I'll put all this stuff away, and when you're done, I'll act surprised."

Bucky didn't roll his eyes, but a minute twitch of his jaw indicated that he noticed the problem with that idea.

Steve laughed aloud.

Of all the birthdays he could remember, this was one of the best.

* * *

Less than a quarter-hour later, Steve sat at the little dining room table, a small plate in front of him. This was it. Bucky would've called it "the moment of truth."

Steve glanced up at the brown-haired figure watching him from the other side of the table.

Well, at least he _would_ , were he as talkative as he used to be. Steve bit back a sigh and forced himself to focus on the better parts of this situation. He was about to try the cake that Bucky made. All things considered, that sort of out-weighed the bad.

He'd cut a small wedge off of the slice, frosting and all, and took a bite. The frosting was a little thick; maybe Bucky hadn't had time to let the butter soften. The cake was dry, maybe a bit overcooked and singed on the bottom...

And considering who made it, it was absolutely perfect.

"Good?" asked Bucky, cocking his head to the side a little.

Steve swallowed the bite, and then grinned. "You bet. Thanks so much."

The brightness that sprang into Bucky's eyes right then made the bad day totally worth it.

Swallowing once more to be sure, Steve leaned forward and said conspiratorially, "But y'know, Buck, this isn't right."

Bucky cocked his head to the side and frowned, confusion delving lines into his forehead.

"S' not right," repeated Steve, and somehow managed not to grin and totally ruin it. "We can't eat the whole cake all by ourselves without inviting Sam."

Bucky's expression blanked. Then he leaped out of the chair and, before Steve could react beyond a smile, dashed into the kitchen and returned with another slice of cake.

Bucky sat down, placing the new slice at the vacant place next to him. Scooting it closer to the center, Bucky said, "For him," and looked at Steve as if for approval.

"Good idea." Steve pulled his phone from his pocket and gave Bucky a warm glance. "Let's hope Sam can make it."

* * *

There was an answer on the third ring, making the phone click when a voice came through. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sam," Steve replied, leaning back in his chair. He made sure to sound relaxed, fully aware of how many panicked phone calls Sam Wilson had to field from him the first few weeks of Bucky's recovery. As Bucky was, at the moment, calm and happily downing his second slice of cake, there was no need to give off a false alarm.

"Hey, man, happy Fourth!" replied Wilson, and it sure sounded like he was smiling. "What's up?"

"Nothing much." Steve spared a warm glance at Bucky, then asked Sam, "You doing anything today?"

"You mean for the _Fourth of July_?" he deadpanned. "Of course I am. I'm barbecuing and going to watch the fireworks when the sun goes down."

"Original." Steve stopped himself just short of a smirk.

"Hey, you can't beat a classic," Sam shot back, playing it off in style. "There's this great spot in the park outside of town. You can see everything."

"Sounds great," Steve admitted. He wasn't partial to fireworks, but...

"It really is. Want to come out?"

At this point, Bucky looked up, breaking into the conversation with a subdued but still very intentional look at Steve.

Steve caught the message and gave a muted smile. To be honest, he kind of felt the same about loud noises, after one too many experiences in the German trenches. "Thanks, Sam, but no thanks," he answered, his voice low. "We're celebrating my birthday at home."

Bucky didn't smile in triumph, but the muscles around his eyes relaxed just a bit, and he went back to his desert.

"What? Oh, man," exclaimed Sam, "I forgot your birthday is the fourth. Hey, you should come out and see the fireworks they're putting on for you!"

Steve had to grin. "Yeah, you're not the first one to make that joke, Wilson," he said, and rested his elbows on the table with a nostalgic smile turned on Bucky.

Bucky returned his gaze, curious, but without any recognition in his eyes.

Steve had to sigh internally. Oh, well...he supposed his friend would remember in time.

 _"Look, Stevie! They put on fireworks for you! The whole city's celebrating_ your _birthday!"_

"To each his own, then," Sam replied, his voice breaking into Steve's thoughts."What _are_ you doing?"

Steve allowed himself a wide grin. "Bucky made a cake," he supplied.

Bucky munched on a bite of said cake...and then stopped, staring at the phone between him and Steve. There was dead silence on the other end.

Finally, Sam grunted, "You're pulling my leg, Rogers."

Bucky shot the phone a _very_ heated glare that just screamed "how dare you doubt my baking skills!" Steve almost wheezed in his effort not to laugh.

"You—you know I have you on speakerphone, right?" he quizzed Sam, grinning ridiculously and trying not to look past the phone to see Bucky's face. "He heard that."

"What? You're serious?" Sam sounded equal parts incredulous and surprised.

"You're getting the Glare," Steve goaded him, sneaking a glance up.

"Well, tell him to stop!" exclaimed Sam.

Bucky wrinkled his nose at the phone and pointedly turned all attention back to his cake. Steve coughed to cover a chuckle.

"Sorry, man, that was just a bit out of the blue," Sam apologized. "Ask him where he learned to bake?"

Not expecting Bucky to answer, Steve opened his mouth to say he didn't know.

"Internet," Bucky mumbled, just loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.

Silence reigned for another second or so.

"Well, I _am_ impressed," said Sam.

Bucky colored a bit, but looked pleased. Steve really, honestly had no idea how this day could get any better.

"Is the cake good?" asked Sam.

Jumping on the chance to brag on his friend, Steve said, " _Very_ good. If you don't get here soon, there might not be any of it left."

Even after living under a lifetime of nothing but orders, Bucky seemed to know indirect praise when he heard it. When Steve looked up, a bright pink blush had fixated itself to Bucky's cheeks.

"Whoa, no way I'm passing up free cake!" Sam replied on cue. "I'll be there in five."

A small problem with that idea registered in Steve's mind and distracted him. "Don't you live ten minutes away?" he asked.

"For cake, I'll make it in five," retorted Sam. "See you guys in a bit." The phone clicked, and "end call" appeared on the screen.

 _Thanks, Sam,_ Steve thought, smiling at the number. That's two friends who didn't forget him, against all odds of doing so.

After a quiet moment or two, Bucky leaned forward over the table. Steve caught his eye, and Bucky said in a rushed whisper, "Happy birthday."

Steve's smile couldn't be wide enough. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky smiled back.

* * *

 **A/N: Cheers for Sam Wilson! He's so fun. I hope to be able to write more with him in the future.**

 **The short flashback of Bucky ribbing Steve about fireworks was borrowed, with permission, from theoriginalbookthief07's "Never Meant for You to Fix Yourself," one of my personal favorite stories on this site and the one that inspired me to write for this fandom in the first place. Go ahead and drop by, and leave a nice review telling her Order sent ya. If you like my work, you'll love Never Meant, and the rest of bookthief's 'Verse.**

 **Reviews are extra dollops of frosting. Have a great one, guys.**

 **...**

 **...**

 **(Also, I'm going to keep taking pictures of my Funko! POP figures in kitchen appliances, and _you cannot stop me!_ )**


	2. Just the Icing on Top

**A/N: Whew! Hey all, I'm alive, in spite of a lot of really sudden things that jumped on me lately. You know, life. Anyway, God willing, I'll have that regular posting schedule I promised. Many thanks to Mish, the baker around here, and to Julianna for their ideas in the end of this chapter. Hope you enjoy this break from your reality scheduled Civil War angst! Let's see Bucky's side of the story in A Slice of Cake.**

* * *

 **Just the Icing on Top**

Bucky Barnes had a new nemesis, and it was piping bags. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

Steve was actually responsible for giving Bucky the idea to make him a cake for his birthday, one warm July afternoon when he'd interrupted Bucky's game of soft darts.

With a flick of his wrist, the tiny missile left Bucky's flesh hand and sailed through the air towards the wall-mount target. It hit the bull's-eye (as had all the others) and knocked another dart off and onto the living room floor.

"Hey, Bucky," Steve called, poking his head in from the hall.

Bucky stiffened reflexively, but tried to cover it up by flopping backwards onto the couch. "Hey," he mumbled, trying to shift into a less awkward position than the one he'd landed in.

 _Smooth, Barnes,_ ground out some sardonic voice that had slowly become more welcome in his mind. Steve said he'd been hella sarcastic before. Maybe that voice was it all coming back.

Steve smiled and took the liberty to enter the room. "I just wanted to let you know that I'll be running out for groceries." He took a long look at the target hung on the wall and added, "Where did you find that?"

"Closet." Bucky nodded at the linens closet across the hall.

"Seriously?" Steve looked honestly surprised. "I had no idea we had soft darts."

Bucky shrugged. He'd discovered it one day when he was particularly bored and was looking for a good place to hide a pistol should HYDRA show up. Somewhere on a fairly inaccessible top shelf in the linens closet, there was a set of soft darts. Goodness knew if it belonged to the last person who'd owned this apartment.

"Huh." Steve took another look at the bulls-eye crowded with five darts, the sixth one still lying on the floor, and something like a smirk crossed his face. "Should I be surprised that you're such a good shot?"

Bucky's jaw tightened into something very much like a smile, and suddenly found the armrest on the couch interesting.

Steve laughed and stepped a bit closer. "Well, if you get bored of target practice and think of anything you need, let me know. I still have to finish my list."

Bucky nodded, running his right forefinger along the hem of the armrest.

Steve would constantly invite him to voice his opinions, needs, or wants, and Bucky wasn't always able to bring himself to take him up on the offer. Defying decades of programming was hard. Getting over his own stubborn need to be self-sufficient was harder.

But he was grateful for the offer when it came, if only because it was different. It reminded him that, no matter what happened next, Steve would never treat him like They had.

Looking up, Bucky realized that Steve had already left for the kitchen. Bucky sat on the couch for a moment longer to weigh his options.

Finding nothing better to do at the moment (and with nothing against being near Steve for a few more minutes before he left), he got up and trekked down the short hall to the kitchen.

* * *

"Okay, I think that takes care of frozens..."

Bucky leaned against the wall and watched Steve talking to himself as he jotted down notes in a long notepad. There was something familiar about Steve's mannerisms in a way he couldn't place, something that reminded Bucky of a skinny blonde kid in clothes that were too big for him...

The impression faded in a moment when he caught Steve jotting down 'cocoa powder'. Bucky frowned. He didn't think they were running low on that.

He headed for the pantry, found a clear bag full of brown powder near the flour and sugar, and held it out at arm's length. "Steve."

"Yeah, Buck—what?" For a moment, Steve looked confused. Something cleared in his expression and he responded, "Oh, no, that's the wrong kind of powder. Yeah, I know we have plenty of that."

Taking the pen to the notepad again, Steve explained further, "That's for baking. Like...for cakes."

Bucky felt his eyebrows knit as he stored the bag where it belonged. _Chocolate cake?_

And then the small, dark walls of the pantry gave way to dim, sunlit walls and a faint smell that he only vaguely remembered.

" _Now take this straight to the Rogers', and don't you eat any of it on the way!_ " A woman's voice, half scolding, half teasing, penetrated the image, and he saw the vague shape of someone in a skirt folding a rich brown desert into a basket.

 _Who...?_ Bucky wondered.

" _I won't, Ma, promise!_ " cried the shrill voice of a small boy. " _Cross my heart and hope to die._ " The little boy's fingers made a cris-cross motion over his chest—something Bucky only knew, though there was no child to be seen.

" _Oh, I wouldn't go that far,_ " the woman laughed. _"_ _I trust you. There you_ go." She passed the basket to a small pair of hands—

And suddenly Bucky remembered, the rough feel of the wicker on his skin, and the weight as if he held the burden himself. _Me!_ Bucky realized, almost staggering back with the force of the idea. _It's me, the boy, that was me..._

He faintly remembered the feather-light brush of a mother's kiss on his head. " _Now, go. And make sure Steve gets the first piece. It's his day, after all._ "

" _Yes, Ma!_ " A heave to settle the burden in his arms, and haphazardly-placed footsteps, running out the door...and then, Bucky was in Steve's kitchen again, leaning against the shelves in the pantry for support.

He could feel his breathing heavier and faster than normal, yet there wasn't the lingering pain, fear, or anxiety that usually followed his flashbacks. He tried to calm himself, mentally running over what he'd seen and assessing it.

 _This one was good..._

"Memory?" asked Steve, his voice low. He faced Bucky, both thumbs looped in his pockets, the grocery list lying abandoned on the counter behind him.

 _Stupid punk worries all the time._ That much was familiar enough to calm Bucky, and he nodded, immediately awake and aware.

Steve's expression softened, but none of the anxiety in those blue eyes had left. "Good?" he asked slowly. "Or bad?"

"Good." Bucky's voice sounded rough from disuse. He licked his lips and ran his thumb over the ridges in his metal arm. "There was...um...a woman."

 _My mother..._ Bucky pushed the thought into a corner of his mind for later and made himself continue.

"And she—there was a cake," said Bucky, getting his bearings back. "I think she made it. Had me take it...somewhere." His voice fell. "I was little. The guy was called 'Steve'." It fell further, and he ducked his head. "Dunno if it was you, maybe."

Steve had begun to smile as Bucky relayed the memory, and that smile only got bigger. "Your Ma," he said. "Winnifred. We called her Winnie. She could bake pretty well."

Steve's voice dropped a decibel, and the smile turned vaguely into something playful. "Not as well as my Ma, though."

Bucky managed to return something that was like a smirk. _Sure, Steve, sure. Not that I'd remember..._

The concern was back in Steve's eyes, though he still tried to smile. "You okay?"

Bucky straightened and nodded. "M'fine." He glanced past Steve at the list and took a deep breath. _And I don't want to forget this one..._

Steve kept pens around his house, that much Bucky knew—mostly in those flat cups on the corners of tables and desks. He'd searched them out, the first night he arrived here, as even before then he'd gotten into the habit of writing what he didn't want to forget. You never know when a pen, like a gun, could come in handy.

He snatched one ballpoint pen out of its place on the counter-top and whisked a napkin out of its holder. _Winni...Winnifred? How are you supposed to spell that?_

"Aw, Bucky, you don't have to do that." Steve's voice interrupted him.

 _But I still don't know how to spell it..._ Bucky protested internally, but the idea didn't reach his voice as he turned to look at Steve.

"Hang on." Steve had begun to search some drawers in the kitchen, but didn't seem to find what he was looking for. "I'll be right back," he said, heading out into the hall with a quick glance in Bucky's direction.

Bucky sat in a chair at the table, unsure of what was happening, but he figured it would be best to sit still. He put down the pen and waited, waited silently until he could hear the clock ticking in the den, and the sound of Steve moving things in his bedroom across the hall.

Bucky's flesh finger began to tap on the table, and he made it stop.

Steve was back soon enough, ripping the first few pages out of a blue spiral-bound notebook. "Here," he said.

Bucky stared at the new object. He hadn't seen Steve with one of those before.

"I've barely used it at all." Steve threw the first few pages away in the kitchen trash can. "But you can have it."

Bucky continued to stare, this time slightly incredulous. _Seriously...?_

Steve shrugged and set the book onto the table in front of Bucky. "All yours," Steve explained, tapping the cover with his fingers, and then he moved away.

 _A gift?_ Bucky examined the blue cover as if to pick out every blemish in its surface. He could hear Steve walking behind him, and wasn't sure if this was some kind of test.

Bucky traced the edge with his finger, then shifted it an inch toward him on the tabletop. _He said 'all yours...'_

Still half afraid there was some sort of catch, he peeled back the cover. The first page was bare and clean, marked with faint blue lines horizontally, and there were still the outlines of letters made by pressure when Steve had written on the page before it.

Bucky picked up his pen and carefully jotted down _Winnifred._

From there, the pen couldn't move fast enough, and Bucky found that all of his apprehensions blew into smoke.

He hardly heard Steve chuckle, pick up his keys, and promise to be back in an hour. When Bucky looked up, the door had closed and the apartment was empty, save for himself.

Bucky picked up the notebook that was _all his_. He'd be getting his worth out of this thing.

* * *

Between the mattress and the springboard of Bucky's bed (and somehow still undiscovered or untouched by Steve), there was a thin collection of cards, envelopes, wrappers, scraps of paper, and napkins, on which he'd jotted down many the things he hadn't wanted to forget.

There were maps of HYDRA rendezvous points that he'd sketched out, half by instinct, half by memory. There were short, often disjointed accounts of memories from _before,_ before—records of a past he couldn't quite believe still belonged to him. And then there were various facts and pass-codes that he'd found to be useful, like the address to Alexander Pierce's apartment (which was for sale last he checked), the code to the electronic lock outside Steve's apartment, and the password to Steve's tablet.

Bucky pulled every scrap out, one at a time, and paying no attention to any sort of order he copied each one down, letter for letter, into the new book that Steve had given him. One of his earliest notes was on a smudged old envelope that never made it where it was addressed.

 _I recognize this..._ he thought absently.

' _Steven Grant Rogers born July 4 1918 James Buchanan Barnes born March 10 1917_ '. He'd recorded the information from plaques at the museum, instinctively knowing that the names and numbers were important.

Bucky set the envelope aside and made his way through the pile, until every note was in its place and he could throw the old scraps away. The dates and names had given him an idea, but that could wait. He knew better than to begin one—mission?—no, _task_ before ending another one.

A ghost of a smile began to creep onto his face. The last time he'd done anything like _that_ was when he ignored the order ' _kill Steve Rogers_ ' and replaced it, on his own. His new mission was ' _protect Steve Rogers_ '.

With a thump in his heart, it suddenly occurred to Bucky that he ought to be wherever Steve was right now. _No, no_ , he schooled himself, _it's fine. Calm down, Barnes._

Any mission, even one he gave himself, could stay on hold for a grocery run.

After bagging the scraps and throwing them all away, Bucky paged back through his book until he could find the names and dates he'd gotten from the museum.

Steve's tablet was on the chest-of-drawers like it always was, and Bucky typed in the password that, by now, he'd memorized. He sat on Steve's bed and pulled up a calendar. _Today is..._

He found the highlighted box on the screen. _This one. June 25._

A quick swipe of his finger confirmed his suspicion. _Nine days until July 4._

Google seemed to think that birthdays were the times for people to buy candles and cakes and things like that.

 _Is that right...?_

Bucky rested both elbows on his knees, the device held safely between his hands. The afternoon sunlight sifted through the curtains, casting a white square of light onto the floor by his feet.

Bucky was beginning to thread together the different ideas and scraps of information in his mind, and the book that was a _gift_ lay on the bed beside him like the beginning of all his ideas. There would be less than nine days to complete the new mission—

 _Wait._ _New mission?_

Bucky sat up, thought over the concept, and finally decided that it felt right. _Yep. A new mission, just a smaller one._ Bucky set his jaw, they way that those in charge are supposed to, and a light sparked in his eyes. _I'm calling the shots now._

* * *

Bucky was up to his elbows in flour and frosting, but all he could think was _oh boy, was this worth it?_

"You made a cake?" asked Steve, an unreadable expression on his face as he stood in the kitchen doorway.

 _Do you like it?_ Bucky wanted to blurt out, but he couldn't. Too many worries had been swirling through his mind since Steve arrived, not the least of them being that Steve would be mad that it wasn't done, or that the mess wasn't cleaned up, or that Bucky had dared to do anything on his own in the first place.

He'd been brave planning all of this. _Real easy when the man's not standing right in front of you._ Bucky gulped, and could feel his head ducking against the burn of Steve's gentle gaze.

 _Well, you did it. Face the music, Barnes._

He simply nodded.

The smile that it earned from Steve made all of Bucky's worries fly up like smoke through a chimney.

"Can I see?" he asked.

 _Yes, yes, it's yours, you can have it, here!_ Bucky wanted to say, but when he looked at his arm and told it to move the cake closer to Steve, it wouldn't budge.

 _Oh come on!_ He hated being nervous for no reason. _It's Steve!_

After a moment, Steve reached forward himself. He stopped, and he and Bucky searched one another's faces for a moment— _What's he thinking?_ Bucky wondered—and he reached forward and paused one more time before pulling the cake out from behind Bucky.

 _Okay. Good. That's fine._ Bucky wanted to say a million things by way of explanation.

But when Steve looked around the kitchen, he smiled, and seemed to get it.

Bucky couldn't take it anymore. He could feel his shoulders rising to enclose his head and face, but it was less from fear and more from something warm and hungry in a way that felt good. He shifted on his feet, hoping to get Steve's attention—and then he did.

 _Come on, come on, just_ ask _him!_

"Good?" asked Bucky, when he found the voice.

Steve's beaming smile was worth it all, even without the enormous hug that followed it. Bucky bit down a noise of surprise at the sudden contact.

 _Boy, you smell like outside,_ he thought, and decided that wasn't a bad thing.

"Yeah, Buck, real good," Steve praised, his voice soft and filled with happiness. "Good job. Thank you so much."

Bucky could feel his face heating a little, hidden as it was between Steve's chin and shoulder. _'Good job...thank you so much...'_ The words bounced around in his mind and left warmth everywhere they touched.

He buried his face in Steve's shoulder, wanting to hide for a misplaced reason.

"You're back too soon," whispered Bucky. It would have to do for an apology.

"What?" Steve asked.

And then a loud, sudden laugh made Bucky jump and stare at Steve accusingly. _What?! What was that?!_

"Whoa, Buck—sorry," he apologized, still laughing and trying to catch his breath. Bucky shrank down into himself, disgruntled.

"It's okay," Steve assured him. "Aw, was that it? You wanted me distracted, so you stuck me in the one place you knew that had awful long lines. Boy, you're smart, Bucky," he praised warmly, and Bucky could feel Steve's fingers messing up his hair. "Sorry I rushed home. I was worried about you."

Time seemed to slow down. He couldn't even hear the clock ticking in the den, he was focusing so hard.

And that was the moment Bucky realized he'd _done_ it.

The smile pulling at his face felt more like a smirk than anything, but Bucky couldn't stop it for the life of him. "Mmn...got you," he muttered, and then buried his face in Steve's shoulder because he couldn't remember _tricking_ anyone before but _man,_ it felt good.

"Yeah, you got me," Steve answered, still overjoyed.

The tight hug that followed that made Bucky absently wonder how effectively Steve could break a man's bones. But Steve soon released him, and smiled widely enough to make Bucky forget it.

"Tell ya what, pal. You finish the cake," suggested Steve, "I'll put all this stuff away, and when you're done, I'll act surprised."

Bucky felt his jaw twitch. Steve laughed again.

He looked so _happy_...

 _Oh, yeah, this was worth it._

* * *

 _Dang it! Again..._

Two minutes into the continuing battle of getting frosting onto the cake, and Bucky was seriously reconsidering his earlier sentiment.

It wasn't that getting frosting onto the cake was hard. No scooping motion could possibly be hard. No, it was more that spreading it raked up a number of crumbs from the chocolate surface and got them all mixed into the icing.

Bucky was pretty sure that a cake wasn't supposed to look like a pale thing with freckles, and his irritation was beginning to get to the point where his teeth would not move from being grit together.

 _Come on already..._

Almost an entire layer of chocolate brown cropped up on the underside of one wave of frosting, and Bucky growled aloud as he wrestled it down.

"What's the matter, Buck?" asked a surprised Steve, poking his head out of the pantry.

Bucky fixated him with a look that was wholly disgruntled and let the spatula rest limp in his hand. _What do you_ think _the matter is? Look at this!_

Steve's gaze wandered to the cake, and he began to look like he was biting back a cough. "Oh, having trouble?" he asked, his voice strangely controlled. His eyes twinkled in a way that confused Bucky.

Giving up on figuring out Steve, he glared at his uncooperative creation and grumbled, "Crumbs," as a way of explanation.

The odd biting-back-a-cough thing came over Steve's face again, this time stronger. "Don't worry," he said, coming to Bucky's side and taking the spatula from him. Steve looked like he couldn't stop smiling. "Oh, I see. This always happens. You can finish the crumb coat and let it set, and then we'll put on another layer. You made enough icing for that, right?"

Bucky blinked as he considered all of this. A quick glance at the bowl under the stand-up mixer proved that they did have enough to put on another layer of frosting, so Bucky nodded, but still...

 _What do you mean by 'crumb coat'?_

"Good." Steve had taken over smoothing the frosting over the cake's surface and sides. "I've got all the stuff put away, so I can help you now."

He straightened and turned to Bucky, who didn't quite know what to do with himself and was still wondering where Steve learned to use this strange other language. "Was there anything you wanted to do to decorate this? Besides just plain frosting, I mean. I think we have some piping bags."

Bucky blinked. Steve had a bad habit of following up his questions with words and burying them so deep that Bucky had to backtrack to figure out what he was actually asking. _Decorating...?_ he wondered, before the image he'd found above the internet recipe came rushing back. _That_ was a decorated cake!

 _I want to do that...!_

Bucky made a dash for Steve's room and swiped his tablet off of the chest-of-drawers. It woke up when he opened the cover, and Bucky jabbed in the password as he walked back to the kitchen. The internet page with the recipe was waiting for him.

Steve seemed mildly surprised when Bucky entered the kitchen again. "Why do you—?" he began.

Bucky had already faced the screen toward him and held it in arm's reach. He figured it would get the message across.

Steve took the tablet in one hand. "Okay, we can do this," he answered slowly, his eyes roving the picture before he glanced up at Bucky. "Uh...Buck..."

Bucky straightened.

"You know my password?"

Bucky didn't have to think about that one. "Yes."

Steve blinked.

"Okay," he said, looking back at the screen. "Um..." He seemed to get his composure back after a second. "If you want to do this, I'll have to separate the frosting into two bowls. One for the extra coat, one for the piping."

Bucky thought about this and nodded. That seemed to make sense...even though Steve was using a bunch of special cake words that Bucky didn't know. It was only slightly annoying.

"The picture has chocolate icing, though," Steve went on. He'd pulled a large bowl out of the cabinet and was divvying it up between that and the mixing bowl. "You only made vanilla, so we can add colors if you want."

 _Colors?_ Bucky paid more attention at this point. Steve noticed and smiled.

"That sound good to you, pal?" Steve reached up and pulled a small box out of the cabinet.

 _Why do you keep having things around here that I don't know about?_ Bucky grumbled, before he remembered the soft darts set and felt better about himself.

"Here's all the food dye we have," offered Steve. "A little goes a long way, so don't worry about the size. You can just pick a color, and we'll do that."

He set the box down in front of Bucky and went right back to work.

Bucky frowned intently, as if he wanted the box to be absolutely sure he didn't like it. He'd just caught on to the fact that Steve wanted him to _choose_ something. Again.

Bucky looked up at Steve and found him almost pointedly busy with putting on a second coat of frosting.

Bucky felt himself starting to roll his eyes. _Well, there's nothing for it_ , he relented.

Touching the box as little as possible, he pulled back the lid. Four little bottles with nozzles stared up at him.

Each one bore a single color of green, yellow, blue, or red.

 _Red..._

Bucky felt himself start to freeze. _Stop, stop, snap out of it,_ something in his brain screamed at him, but it was no use. He hated red. He _hated_ red. He would always hate red. Red was the color of the Book, the color of the fires, the color of...of when he shot Steve, and he...

Bucky didn't want to look at the red again, so he yanked the other three out of the box, shut the lid as tightly as he could, and pushed the box away, hiding the red in the dark where he couldn't see it.

Steve looked surprised. "That was quick," he remarked, glancing at the three little bottles in Bucky's hand. "You want those?"

Bucky blinked, dragged himself back to reality, processed what Steve said, and copied his gaze. In his flesh palm lay the three little bottles of yellow, blue, and green.

 _Sure,_ Bucky thought, _why not,_ as some of the tension began to slip away from his shoulders and he could think again. They weren't... _that_. And he didn't have to choose any more if he just said yes to Steve.

So Bucky nodded and dropped the three bottles onto the counter where Steve could reach them. Steve smiled. Something told Bucky that he always would.

"Sure, we can do that," Steve assured him. "You wouldn't want to mix all of those into the same bowl, though. Can you get three small bowls from the cabinet?"

Bucky moved to do just what Steve asked.

"Thanks." The smile was back. "You can put one color into each of those. I'm almost done here, so I'll get the piping bags ready for you."

Bucky nodded, setting the thought aside for later that he still didn't understand why Steve was so happy to say ' _I'll do this—or that, or anything—for you'_.

 _It's for the same reason he always smiles,_ something in his mind supplied.

He'd think about that later.

* * *

Bucky had a new arch-nemesis, and it was piping bags.

His first go had been with the blue icing. Steve had put the nozzle into the bag and showed him how to hold it before placing the whole thing into Bucky's hands. "Just squeeze gently," he instructed, when the point was hovering just over the surface of the cake.

Bucky's left hand had shut like he was grasping a grenade, and the result was a blob of blue frosting that Bucky had no idea what to do to about.

 _What...?_

Steve had a sudden fit of covering his mouth with his fingers, fighting a wide grin, and acting like he couldn't breathe. "That's okay, Bucky," he'd finally said, after wrapping both arms around his middle twice and wheezing. "It's okay, I'll fix it, just..." He made another strange noise, and Bucky realized that he was trying not to laugh.

 _It's not funny!_ Bucky cried inside his head, his face quickly heating up.

"Sorry. Shouldn't laugh, sorry," Steve apologized, schooling himself into composure. "Here." He arranged Bucky's fingers differently on the edges of the piping bag. "That's why I said 'gently', Buck. There. If you can manage, try and give it another go."

The second go had been less spectacular, but still Bucky got a blob. He could think of a few imaginative curses in languages he couldn't remember learning.

 _Why is this so hard?!_

Steve switched colors to yellow, saying they were using too much of one color, but the telltale smile was still there.

Bucky rolled his eyes with a mental grunt. _I give up._

They'd practiced until Bucky could get a steady border around the edge of the cake, and Steve taught him how to push the nozzle back into the path it left to create ruffles. When they were finished, the white surface had an encircling ring of green, blue and yellow.

 _That's not so bad._

The little symbol said that the tablet's battery had run low, and Bucky left to put the device on its charger. When he came back, Steve was bent over the cake with a paring knife and a spoon, and had turned the blue and yellow blobs into flowers.

"They're morning-glories and jasmines," Steve had explained, with a big smile and a twinkle in his eye that felt like something Bucky had forgotten.

And Google was right. It did turn out that birthdays were times for cake.

Twenty minutes later, munching on another bite of the desert (and privately deciding _there should be a lot more times for cake_ ), Bucky couldn't help but note how it tasted almost exactly like that faint smell that had come along with the memory.

He'd gotten it right this time. And he even made sure Steve got the first piece, just like his mother had asked.

" _It's his day, after all,_ " she'd said, and suddenly a gap in the memory from over a week ago was filled with her voice. " _And wish that boy happy birthday for me._ "

" _Yes, Ma!_ " he'd replied before charging out the door.

Bucky looked up. Steve sat across from him at the dining room table, his own slice of cake very nearly devoured, and he'd just ended a call to Sam.

Leaning forward, Bucky waited until he caught Steve's eye and quickly whispered, "Happy birthday." _P_ _unk..._

Steve had the best smile ever, one that even made crinkles around his eyes. "Thanks, Buck," he answered, glowing.

Bucky felt himself smiling back.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, I'm done. No, really. I swear, I am! I'll start working on those other stories that...why are you looking at me like that?! *grunt* Anyway, thanks for sticking with my ramblings, you guys. Reviews are Steve being a cinnamon roll and great big flower nerd. Have a great one, all.**


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